by Andy Maslen
She looked down and pulled on the free end of her belt.
“I’ll find you,” she said.
Torossian nodded, and smiled.
Quiet Carriage
GABRIEL’S phone rang. He was sitting in the quiet carriage on the train down to Salisbury, and a number of elderly people with their noses buried in books or bent over newspaper crosswords looked up, their noses wrinkled with annoyance. He moved to the space between the carriages.
He looked at the screen. And frowned: Private Number.
“Gabriel Wolfe.”
“Hello, Gabriel. It’s Sasha.”
“What the fuck do you want?”
“Oh, darling, now is that any way to speak to an old friend?”
He fought down an impulse to scream abuse at Sasha Beck, or just end the call, but he breathed his way through it.
“I’m coming for you, Sasha.”
“I’m looking forward to it. But in the meantime, you might want to pack a bag.”
“Why?” Did she know about his trip to Kazakhstan somehow?
“Because I’m afraid you’re about to join the ranks of the homeless. It wouldn’t have been my choice, Gabriel, but my client is most insistent. And it’s such a pretty cottage, too.”
With a cold stone weighing heavy in his stomach, Gabriel asked a question to which he already knew the answer.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about an FGM-148 Javelin anti-tank missile. Tandem warhead, shaped charges. Somewhat more advanced than that crappy old M72 I used on your Maserati. Cost me a bloody fortune, I can tell you, and as heavy as all get-out. I’ll give you five minutes to vacate the premises, as they say, then I’m pulling the trigger.”
“I’m not in.”
“Then who was that turning the lights on this morning?”
Shit! Eli. He ended the call and made another one.
“Hi, this is Eli. Leave a message.”
Clutching his phone so tightly his knuckles whitened, Gabriel spoke urgently.
“Eli, get out of the house. Now. I’ll come and find you.”
He went back to his seat and sat heavily, causing the elderly gentleman next to him to harrumph in disapproval.
“Oh, God, please be safe,” Gabriel muttered.
“I beg your pardon?” the old man said.
“Sorry. Talking to myself.”
No doubt imagining he had chosen a seat next to the train’s resident crazy, the man shook out his newspaper with a crackle of pages and buried his head inside it.
Gabriel closed his eyes and tried to visualise Eli safe. Maybe she’d been out on a run. Maybe she’d driven down to the coast to see the English seaside in all its spring glory. He saw her jogging along the beach, laughing as her bare feet pounded the hard-packed sand at the water’s edge, sleek limbs catching the sun, hair flying behind her. Then she stepped on a land mine and her lower legs shattered into bloody shreds and shards of bone, and she tumbled to the sand, shrapnel tearing at her innards, slashing her skin into ribbons. He shook his head and opened his eyes, willing the train to take him home faster. Fast enough to save her.
Item Five
SALISBURY
FROM her vantage point on the hill, seven hundred and fifty yards away from Gabriel’s home, Sasha had an uninterrupted view of the cottage. The light was good, high cloud and the sun behind her. The mildest of crosswinds, little more than a soft breeze, was soughing through the trees around her firing position. All around her, the trees were coming into leaf, sprouting vibrant green foliage. Between her and the cottage, she watched a herd of sheep in a field, moving randomly as they grazed on the lush new-growth grass.
The Javelin was definitely overkill. A hundred and twenty-six thousand dollars’ worth of high-tech military weapon system – for which she had paid ninety on the black market – and a missile worth as much as a Porsche 911. But Erin’s fee was overkill too, as was her attitude. Whatever Gabriel Wolfe had done to her, she was a woman with a mission.
Possessed of normal emotional responses, Sasha might have been struck by the brutal contrast between the American-made anti-tank missile at her shoulder and the pastoral scene before her. As it was, she was oblivious to everything but the job in hand. According to her watch, her deadline was just ninety seconds away. If he’d been lying about not being inside the cottage, Gabriel would have been out of the house seconds after hanging up on her. On foot, obviously, since she’d destroyed that rather nice car of his. Still, when they were together, she’d buy him a new one. And if he hadn’t been lying, she could fire with impunity.
She prepared to fire.
Unlike moving armoured vehicles, structures stay still. Or they do until they’re blown up. So target acquisition was all done in a matter of seconds. Having locked the control launch unit’s infrared targeting system onto the wall of the cottage housing the vent from the central heating boiler, Sasha switched control to the missile’s onboard IR system. It beeped once. Locked on.
She took a breath then let it out. It was a sniper’s move, completely unnecessary with a guided missile, but old habits die hard, and it was Sasha’s way to be consistent in all her hits, whatever weapon she was using. The clock in her head ticked down from twenty seconds.
“Coming, ready or not,” she whispered.
She pressed the trigger button.
The missile left the tube with a damped double-click followed by a brief phut as the gunpowder launch charge ejected it from the tube. A split second later, the main rocket motor ignited with a roar, and the missile streaked away, over the trees and the heads of the sheep towards the cottage. As the exhaust gases blew back towards her, Sasha turned aside and held her breath, not wishing to inhale a lungful of lead oxide.
The rear end of the missile glowed white-hot as it sped down the hill towards its target, trailing a thin stream of pale-grey smoke.
She watched, smiling, as the missile’s twin charges detonated against the central heating vent. The gout of dark-grey smoke that boiled out from the house was followed by the bright orange flash of the fireball. The boom of the explosion reached Sasha’s ears four seconds later. Almost immediately, a second, booming explosion tore the air as the gas main supplying the house ignited.
With the rolling echoes of the explosions bouncing off the hillsides around her, Sasha decoupled the launch tube from the CLU and lugged them separately to her car, where she stowed them beneath a coat in the boot. Brushing her hands together, she turned one last time to watch as the pall of smoke climbed above the ruined cottage. She climbed inside and drove off at a sedate thirty miles an hour.
Item Six
MANHATTAN
Erin was sitting on her balcony, enjoying a late lunch of smoked salmon on whole wheat toast, and a glass of champagne, when her phone vibrated on the glass tabletop.
Item five, completed.
She smiled to herself. Then she called a young man she’d met on her previous trip to London. Alix Polhemus was nineteen, and somewhere on the autism spectrum. He was also preternaturally good at hacking computer systems.
Erin gave Alix a set of instructions they’d discussed during their previous meeting, then hung up.
Exactly seventeen minutes after that, the website of Wolfe & Cunningham, independent security consultants, went dark, drawing a sigh of exasperation from a NATO official who had just found it.
Ten seconds after that, it went live again, now with altered username and password for the webmaster. It bore on its all-black home page – the only one remaining – nothing but an eleven-word message in white capitals.
WE HAVE CEASED TRADING OWING TO THE DEATH OF GABRIEL WOLFE.
The NATO official shrugged and went back to Google.
Human Remains
SALISBURY
THE pall of smoke hanging over the village told Gabriel that Sasha had made good on her promise. He paid the taxi driver and got out. He would have had to anyway because the main road was blocked by fire engines a
nd police cars.
He walked towards his home, threading his way between the emergency services vehicles, until he reached the short stretch of straight road that ran past his cottage. Correction: the wreck of his cottage.
It resembled one of the ruined dwellings he’d seen during his service with the Regiment: black and smoking rubble, twisted pipes sticking out of the ground, a stinking mess of charred fabrics, plastic, paper and metal, and overlaying it all, the stench of burnt rocket propellant and high explosive. The Javelin had destroyed the structure from the chimney down to the doorstep. What the high-explosive warhead hadn’t achieved directly, the gas explosion had completed. The fire was out, and the remaining firefighters were playing water over the smoking ruins to ensure the blaze didn’t reignite.
As he made his way closer, a soot-smeared firefighter approached him with his hand up, palm outwards.
“Sorry, sir, you’ll have to stop there. The police are going to cordon this off.”
Gabriel stopped and looked into the blue eyes of the firefighter, bright in the grimy face.
“That was my house. I had a friend staying with me. Have a friend. Was there—?”
“Jesus! I’m very sorry.” He looked over his shoulder at the smouldering debris. “It’s impossible to say if anyone was inside at this point, sir. Anyone who was, well, I’m afraid they’re beyond help. We didn’t find any evidence, but …”
Gabriel knew what the tired-looking firefighter was implying. In the superheated centre of a shaped-charge explosion, human flesh and bones would have vaporised, and the airborne particles combusted like so much dust, till nothing remained.
“The senior investigating officer is over there. She’ll want to talk to you. Please tell me you were insured.”
Gabriel nodded. “I may need to up my cover, don’t you think?”
Without waiting for an answer from the blinking firefighter, Gabriel walked over to a knot of plainclothes and uniformed police officers who had gathered thirty yards beyond the smoking shell of his former home. As he expected, Anita Woods was at the centre of the group.
Seeing him coming, she detached herself and came forward to meet him. Her face bore an expression of what seemed to him to be genuine sorrow, mixed with something harder to read. As if he had brought something evil to her quiet backwater of the countryside where murders, when they did occur, were crimes of passion or fallings out among soldiers, rather than international vendettas conducted by assassins and their mystery clients.
“Gabriel,” she said. “I don’t know what to say. We’ve got some military bomb disposal people on their way. I’m just so sorry. Have you got somewhere to stay tonight?”
For a surreal moment, Gabriel imagined she was going to offer her spare bedroom to him. Then reality reasserted itself. He shook his head.
“It doesn’t matter. I’m going away for a while. Travelling.”
“I don’t think I can let you do that. We’re going to need to talk to you again. In detail.”
Wearily, Gabriel drew from his wallet the plastic card Eli had given him.
“I’m sorry, too, but that’s not going to happen. Call this number. They’ll explain everything. I have to go. There’s someone I need to find.”
He waited for her to tap in the number on the card, then, as she brought the phone to her ear, signalling him to wait with the other hand, he turned and walked away.
His phone rang.
“Gabriel, it’s Eli. Where are you?”
Thank God. “At the house. Where are you?”
“I’m in the New Forest. I decided to do some sightseeing while you were in London. I got your message. What happened?”
“She hit my house with an anti-tank missile. A Javelin, if you’re interested.”
“Fuck me! So it’s gone, then?”
“Potential for development.”
“You Brits and your gallows humour. You make us Israelis look like clowns. Are you all right? Really?”
“Me? I’m fine. But I’m just about the only one who is, aren’t I? Everyone I care about is dead, except Britta, I mean. And I can’t reach her.”
“What did Don say?”
“He’s given me a dossier on a guy called Timur Kamenko, a Kazakh politician with a nice little sideline supplying ammo to the world’s criminal underworld, including Sasha Beck. We’re going to find him. And when we do, we’re going to get him to tell us about her client. I have the name now. Erin Ayers.”
“Good. How are we getting there?”
“Don said NATO and Kazakhstan have a security cooperation deal – a memorandum of understanding – so we’re flying military and landing at Sary-Arka Airport. Their air force has a fast jet base there, and it’s not too far from Kamenko’s operation. He said we’ll get full on-the-ground support. We’re a married couple engaged in defence analysis for the British Government. Mr and Mrs Craig Esmond.”
“There’s just one thing. All our gear was in the house. We need some new weapons.”
“Don said he’d sort things with the Kazakhs. It’s not a problem.”
“OK, good. I need to come back and get you. Meet me at the pub. We can get something to eat and then, wait, where are we flying from?”
“RAF Odiham. It’s the HQ for the Joint Special Forces Aviation Wing. Don’s lined up a Raytheon Sentinel R1. Long-range. It’ll take us there in one hop.”
“I’ll see you shortly. And Gabriel?”
“What?”
“Try not to worry about Britta, OK?”
Memorandum of Understanding
KAZAKHSTAN
Sary-Arka Airport was another name for the airport Gabriel had flown into with Mortensen. It seemed the Kazakh government couldn’t make its mind up about what to call it, although Gabriel felt the “International” tag was a little overblown. It sat in a huge, featureless plain extending for hundreds of miles in every direction. A white-and-red, two-storey structure, framed by a control tower, a pair of red-and-white floodlight masts and a couple of air bridges, it was never going to win any architecture prizes. The most interesting feature was its name, rendered in stylised capitals of the official Cyrillic alphabet, which made it look as though the airport’s name was CAPY-APKA.
Gabriel and Britta were met off the Sentinel by their Kazakh Ground Forces liaison. He was a tall, imposing man with a craggy jaw and deep-set eyes of a piercing blue, maybe early sixties, and with the easy bearing of a soldier used to command.
“Mr and Mrs Esmond, welcome,” he said, his mouth widening into a smile of what appeared to Gabriel to be genuine good humour. “I am Colonel Ulan Sultanov at your service.” They all shook hands, then the Colonel led them into a Portakabin behind the main terminal building.
“Forgive me, but as a formality, may I see your passports?” he said, once they were seated in a small, functional office decorated with framed prints of what Gabriel supposed were Kazakh politicians.
After the documents were checked and returned, the Colonel spread his hands expansively.
“Your commander, Colonel Webster,” Gabriel and Eli glanced at each other, “was somewhat vague on the precise details of your work here but you have the highest NATO security clearance, so I am here to help you in any way I can. We have a memorandum of understanding, as you probably know.”
Gabriel nodded and smiled, and borrowed a little diplomatic language from memories of his father. “Thank you, Colonel. We are honoured to be working so closely with the Kazakh Ground Forces. Without your support, our work here would be impossible. May I ask, where did you learn your English? It’s extremely good. And is that a hint of an American accent?”
The Colonel laughed, filling the room with the smell of garlic and cigarette smoke.
“Just what I would expect from an intelligence analyst. I trained at West Point, you know? New York State. I am still a Yankees fan.”
“Who do you rate as their best-ever player?”
“Oh, Joltin’ Joe DiMaggio. Every time. You follow sports?”<
br />
“When I can. Work keeps me very busy.”
“Oh, but all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. Isn’t that what you Brits say? Now,” he clapped his hands together, “I expect you want to be on your way. I have prepared transport for you according to Colonel Webster’s instructions. I think you will find it satisfactory.” Gabriel watched the man’s expression closely. Was that a hint of a smile playing around his lips? “Follow me, please.”
Round the back of the building sat a four-wheel drive in sand and olive-green camouflage. The vehicle was the same shape, roughly, as a big, commercial SUV like a Range Rover or a Cadillac Escalade, but bulked up like a body builder with a steroid habit. Clearly cut out for military work, it was slab-sided with heavy-duty bars over the side windows. The ride height was jacked up far enough to drive straight over boulders without scraping the underside. A winch was bolted to the front, to the left of which sat a thick steel towing eye.
“What do you think, darling?” Gabriel asked Eli.
“It’s very nice. Darling.” She turned to the colonel. “A SandCat, yes?”
“Very good, Mrs Esmond. Yes, supplied to us by Oshkosh two years ago. I can personally vouch for its capabilities. Come, look inside. I have assembled some materiel for you.”
Sultanov swung open the rear door. Gabriel peered inside then stood back to let Eli get a closer look. He’d seen two assault rifles, a pair of semi-automatic pistols and several olive-green, steel boxes.
“Would you like to run through what you’ve provided, Colonel?” Eli asked, bestowing a smile on Sultanov that had the man almost purring.
“Certainly, my dear Mrs Esmond. You have two AK-74M assault rifles. Russian-made like virtually all our equipment, and very reliable. Two GSh-18 pistols, also from our large neighbour to the north. And plenty of ammunition. You may be interested to know that the pistols fire both 9 x 19mm Parabellum rounds and overpressure Russian 9 x 19mm 7N21 armour-piercing rounds. You have plenty of each in the ammunition boxes.” He spread his big hands wide and grinned at them. “Just in case you have any troubles during your,” a pause, “analysis.” Then he winked.
